Gone is the appreciative excitement from earlier. A heavy silence falls over us.
“Your room looks strange, empty like this,” he comments, glancing the other way when I clean myself off. “When do you leave?”
“In the morning. Home for the summer to work, then I start my doctorate in the fall.”
I hear a disapproving grunt. “More school. You’re a glutton for punishment.”
I could say the same to him about football, but I don’t know how toun-glamorizethe life that’s waiting for him. Suddenly, he sits up, covering his lap with his hands.
“Shit. We left the door open.”
“It’s fine. Jamie will be gone all night.” That seems to put him at ease, but I no longer have any patience for our rules if getting caught is more important than us parting ways. “Besides, it doesn’t matter anyway. He saw you crawling in the window earlier.”
“Shit.”
Okay,nowI feel guilty, but can’t he see how ridiculous this total secrecy has been? Maybe I’m just bitter from feeling so raw right now. Like if I can’t have him, can I at least have the truth not be so thickly veiled?
“He won’t tell anyone,” I assure him. “He never has. He caught you doing it last year, actually.”
“And you didn’tsayanything?”
Of course, I didn’t. He might have been so freaked out that he’d quit seeing me.
“He won’t talk,” I reaffirm, hating how downtrodden my voice sounds as I ignore the alarm in his voice. I sit up and grab my shorts. Glancing over, I can see the gears turning in his head—the possibility of a dream he’s worked for years for beingshattered by his secret. My bitterness softens, and I take pity on him. “He knows I wanted my privacy.”
He processes my ruse of taking the blame and nods. “I should go.” Getting up, he pads over to his pile of clothes. “My parents are having a thing tomorrow.”
Athing. Not a graduation party. Not an NFL inception party. Not a boring lunch to celebrate nothing in particular. No further explanation needed for his secret hookup. The barrier tape is back up between us—that damn agreement I made two years ago when I was drunk on the fact that he was even speaking to me. I’ve lowered myself so far into the pity party well that I didn’t realize he’s already dressed and getting into his shoes.
Shit. This is it.
Rising, I don’t know if I’m doing a good job of not looking like my heart is in my throat. I’m never going to see him again unless it’s on network television or I go to an NFL game. Lately, I’ve been wishing that I’d told him two years ago how stupid I was for him and scared him off then instead of letting him get his hooks this deep into me.
Our gazes lock. He shifts in place, the corner of his mouth ticking up anxiously. Maybe he doesn’t know how to say goodbye either.
“Well…good luck with everything.” I force as much enthusiasm into the words as I can because Idowish him well. From the bottom of my breaking heart.
“Thanks. You too.” The words are at least soft and sincere. He even gives me one of those rare boyish smiles of his.
Hedoescare. Some part of him. I knew I wasn’t wrong.
I raise my arms to hug him and lean in, hoping this kiss will be my shooting star, changing a fate that only magic can. One of his heavy arms wraps around my shoulders, and the next thing I know, my face is practically smashed against his clavicle. He gives me a squeeze and ruffles my hair with his other hand.
Okay…that was…awkward.
“And thanks for the arrangement. I don’t think I’d have gotten through the stress of the last two years without it.”
Arrangement?As in…the sex?
When he lets go, I don’t even have a chance to ask him to clarify or tell him he can call me whenever he wants. He’s already headed to my bedroom window. Opening it, he straddles the sill and slips through without a backward glance.
He’s…gone. He thanked me for our no-strings-attached sex and then left.
It’s me or football, and football has won again. It always does.
Right…
It’s done.
